


Movies Of Ages Past

by DestinyGuardians



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: And a little bit of angst, Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, RipFic, first fic, more then a little bit, please be nice?, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 16:56:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13345515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyGuardians/pseuds/DestinyGuardians
Summary: “Where is he?” George Lucas asked breathlessly, eyes darting around the group searching for a particular person; the one person who hadn’t gotten unto this ship. Sara felt like her heart had been pierced by the sudden desperation on the movie director’s face.“Where’s Phil?”





	Movies Of Ages Past

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm new here, and this is the very first fic I've ever done so... please be nice?
> 
> This was written for Miki on the Rip Hunter Discord Group Chat for our Gift Exchange. She's a huge fan of Phil Gasmer, and I really hope that she enjoys this, as well as the rest of you. This takes place in a AU where Rip stayed on the Waverider as a Co-Captain. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

“Where is he?” George Lucas asked breathlessly, eyes darting around the group searching for a particular person; the one person who hadn’t gotten into this ship. Sara felt like her heart had been pierced by the sudden desperation on the movie director’s face. 

“Where’s Phil?” George asked agan. 

Sara can remember the way everyone looked down, how Martin and Mick froze as they realized what had happened. How Nate and Amaya met each other’s gazes with that same feeling of failure, how Jax and Ray closed their eyes and swallowed convulsively like, it caused them physical pain. 

Sara remembered how she just stared at George as he looked at them all, slowly beginning to shake his head, breaths shuddering; all she could do was stare because that agony was real, more real than she could have originally imagined. It was the look of someone who just lost their friend, someone who was helpless to save them. The Captain hadn’t believed that he and Phil had been that close; nothing but a professional relationship at best.

The whole explanation for what had just happened and why fell over her lips, ignoring the way the team gazed at her in surprise at her blunt truths. She told George about Rip and the Spear and the Legion, how they were interconnected, how the Speedster had probably taken him so he could interrogate him for more information on the Holy Lance.

George collapsed into the chair behind him as soon as she said ‘interrogate’; he knew what she really meant, and that seemed to be too much to bear.

“They’re going to torture him.” he said, interrupting Sara’s explanation, eyes growing overly bright. The word echoed throughout the group, and it made a chilling silence come over them. The assassin stuttered off, unable to continue.

Yes… yes, they were going to torture him. They were going to torture a man who knew nothing, who would suffer for reasons he wouldn’t know, who would be unable to help himself because he was just a regular man; he was just Phil Gasmer, not Rip Hunter, not Rip Hunter-

George looked down at the piece of the Spear he had been clutching in a death grip this entire time. He began to tremble when it all crashed down on him, the weight of the artifact, the character he had thought was just a figment of his friend’s imagination being real, and now that same friend being tortured. All because of this thing, this thing that it was his duty to take care of as prop master, like Phil had trusted him to do. Phil who was probably going to die because of him…

The team stirred when they saw tears begin to drip out of George’s eyes, shocked as the famous movie director broke down into quiet sobs, the Spear falling from numb hands to land with an unnervingly loud clatter on the floor.  
Sara thinks it was probably that which drove her to do what she did.

…

Rip knew there was something off when he woke up that morning.

He didn’t know what it was. It was just an eerie feeling drifting down his spine, the feeling that always followed knowing someone who shouldn’t be there was on the ship. He had developed a sixth sense over the course of his travels, one that had saved his life more than a couple times. It made him sit up straight, and reach over the pillow to grab his revolver on the nearby table, flicking it on.

“Gideon,” he whispered to the quiet room, slowly standing up on socked feet and wondering if he would have time to warn the rest of the team. “Gideon, is there anyone else on the ship outside of the Legends?”

There were two beeps and a low hum as Gideon turned on in his room. “… There’s no one else outside of you and the rest of the team currently inside the ship, Captain.” Her voice sounded confused, disoriented, almost like she had been asleep beforehand, though of course that was an absurd notion. He recognized that tone of voice, which meant simply that what he was asking seemed a little off to her. It was the tone she usually took when he was doing something particularly odd or reckless.

Rip let out a sigh through his nose, scratching the side of his neck uncertainly. Maybe he was being a little too paranoid after the Legion. It had been three months since his return and yet he was adjusting, still trying to find a way for the part of him left over after Phil’s trauma to heal (which had been the one part of him that could not handle such torture), as well as the following weeks spent brainwashed and evil. He had been pursued by that feeling for a while now; maybe it was because Phil had known there was something wrong about himself. Or perhaps it was because of the Spear trying to call him back to it, or because of the way his true self had (however weakly) been fighting the Legion version of him as long as it had been there, but that uneasy sensation of things not being right had haunted him relentlessly for the past few months.

With slow, almost wary movements, he got ready for the day, deciding it was no longer worth trying to go back to sleep even, though it must be too early for the team to be awake. He cleaned himself up, threw on his usual outfit, and stepped out of his room. The Brit pointedly ignored the way the feeling increased.

He was about halfway down the hallway to the kitchen when he heard the voices drifting from the nearby Bridge. He froze, unsure, having been so certain that not one person from the rest of the Legends would be up. But no, there was Mick’s low growl, Amaya’s questioning voice, Ray’s chirping, Sara’s calm tone, and Nate’s very excited… squealing?

There was also one other voice… one that Rip couldn’t place but was so painfully familiar at the same time. Unable to ignore the sense telling him that something wasn’t as it seemed he, finally gave in, and with quick sure steps walked towards the open entrance at the end of the hall.

“I really hope you haven’t recruited another stray, or at least not while I was asleep...” Rip’s only half serious remark nearly instantly died off as the occupants of the Bridge whipped around to stare at him.

They had all turned to him with the type of look that clearly said he wasn’t supposed to be here. Sara shot up from where she was sitting in the Captain’s chair, Nate and Ray fell silent in what had obviously been a very passionate rant. Amaya froze completely, and even Mick showed some resemblance of uneasiness at his sudden entrance.

But the only person Rip was paying attention to was their, very much not a Legend, sixth member in the room, who couldn’t possibly be here but, was.

George Lucas met his gaze, freezing, eyes going huge, and sucking in a harsh breath. It seemed like something cold had been dumped over him at the sight of the Time Master, and he couldn’t shake it off. He didn’t say a thing, didn’t even make a noise. All he did was stare, and stare, and stare at a similarly stock still man.

Rip was in a state of shock, confronted with something he had hoped he’d put behind him. It’s that sort of hovering uncertainty his body did, the way his fists clenched at his side, how he’d immediately begun to address every little detail about the one before him as well as his connection with him. The Captain had difficulty wrapping his head around what he was seeing, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that all of a sudden there seemed to be two different memories waging a war inside him… a third viciously stirring with a dark smoke purr…

He knew not to let his heart do the talking here, because it might say something he’d regret; of course his mind wasn’t much better…

“Hello… Mr. Lucas,” Rip said in a low tone, while his memories of being Phil pieced themselves together into a fully formed picture, one that brought both pain and a strong realization. Yes, him and George; friends, they had been good friends. The first friends either of them had… which he’d just forgotten in all the things that had happened? Had Rip Hunter, evil or not, forgotten the impact he’d left on the timeline?

Maybe some of that slipped into his voice, because the greeting sounded off-handed, casual, and cold. It made everyone stir in worry, glancing at each other; they had probably expected something else because that didn’t sound like Rip, it sounded like the part of him that was a Time Master… it sounded like Legion Rip.

George blinked, once, twice. He swallowed, probably trying to gather his sudden scattered thoughts. Rip begins to violently curse himself when he saw the hurt that crossed his face, wishing he could take it back and greet him the correct way. Maybe with a cocky smile, a tilt of the head, an American accent, familiarity instead of distant recognition. That wasn’t how this was supposed to start, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to make that hopeful look, that the man had so fleetingly, disappear.

George takes in another shaky breath. “Hi, Phillip,” And oh boy, does he try to match Rip’s tone, and it makes him nearly want to chuckle. Luc, always trying to be tough when really all he did was care and be the kind voice of reason to Phil’s borderline chaotic ambition.

He’s pretty sure George can see that by the look on his face, the small half grin that had crawled unto Rip’s lips, because whatever sort of definite act he puts on crumbles immediately. He hangs his head and shuffles awkwardly, coughing into his hands.

The rest of the team finally seemed to realize that they might be intruding on a slightly personal conversation, especially when Rip glares at them. He knows full well they were the ones to bring the movie director on board, and he plans to have a serious conversation about meddling in things they shouldn’t. They make a couple of noises that might be some half-arsed excuse about exactly why they shouldn’t be there, and scurry off.

Sara is the last to leave, not fazed at all by any of this. She simply gently pats an increasingly worried George on the back, giving a reassuring smile to him, and walks out, brushing past Rip with a single low whisper of “Talk to him.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Neither man moves, neither man look at each other; it’s the oddest sensation, because when the two of them had been in a small space together it was usually only talking, only moving, only laughing. They were practically children, George and him, when they had a bong of weed and good company.

But he’s not Phil, and it’s a cold thought they both know.

It’s George, timid but big hearted George, that speaks first.

“How are you doing?” The question is deliberate, a casual ice breaker that in this situation carries far too much.

The Captain isn’t sure how to answer. He wants to be as honest as he can be without overwhelming the man. Perhaps it would be better to keep certain truths hidden, but then again he doesn’t want this conversation to be built off fake smiles and empty words.

Rip looks at him finally, and is surprised to see that George met his eyes. It was only for a brief second before they flickered to the floor again but it was a good sign. Many civilians found themselves unable to meet his gaze at all, for whatever reason; it was especially true for those who had met him before.

George probably misunderstands his silence because suddenly he continues on in a rambling rush. “I-I mean t-they told me that the… the Legion had gotten their hands on you, and they were going to i-interrogate you,” his voice stutters, “and I was just wanted to know if they followed through with that or you got out quick enough. I’ve been left in the dark and it’s been so scary these past couple of weeks, they just disappeared without a trace until Sandra, Sara! Sara knocked on my door and told me that they got you back, but things h-had changed and h-happened, that you became… and that… you weren’t… you weren’t… They haven’t told me anything since then just to be careful around you, that it’s been really hard for you, and I wasn’t sure what to do because these are Phil’s characters, I mean the Legends, I mean your Legends, and I just-!”

Rip carefully began to walk towards the film student, eyebrows furrowing and hyper aware that the man was getting only more and more upset in his rambling as he got closer. It reached a pitch when Rip had come to stand beside him, but suddenly cut off as the Brit laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” Rip reassured quietly, as George heaved in several shaky breaths and blinked away the sudden wetness in his eyes. “Just breathe, George. You’re going to hyperventilate if you continue. Take a moment.”

George swallowed again with a jerky nod, quickly wiping at his unfallen tears in mild embarrassment. Rip gave him a couple beats, until he was sure that the man had collected himself enough so he wouldn’t break down. He then took his hand off his shoulder and gestured at his office. 

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked in that same, reassuring voice that didn’t push in the slightest, hoping to instill some sort of comfort in this situation.  
The director gave a second choppy nod and followed the Time Master across the room with his whole body trembling. Once at the office he stopped in the doorway, looking around at all the ancient artifacts and books and scrolls, mouth half open and seemingly dazed by the realism of it all.

Rip had another small smile at his awed expression. “A bit better than some toys and homemade projects, hmm?”

George still didn’t move, not until Rip had redirected his attention to the large leather chair at the entrance. He practically collapsed unto it, body limp with everything that he was taking in, and the Captain grew concerned when the silence stretched onwards and the dazed eyes turned almost glazed.

“George? … George, are you alright?” Rip asked again, a frown replacing the smile. He walked around again so he was leaning against the desk in front of him, just a couple feet away, growing worried.

The film student finally snapped out of whatever train of thought he’d been on and the surprised tremor that took him was almost comically exaggerated.

“Alright… am I… You… I… I-I thought I was the one who asked you that?” He struggled to put together a coherent idea, but once he did it sounded almost incredulous.

Rip’s lip twitched upward. “Yes, but I imagine your ‘alright’ will be a little simpler than mine, and is currently my priority.”

George blinked rapidly for the hundredth time and the comical shock somehow got even stronger at that sentence. “Your priority?” He murmurs, with that same sort of awe he had walking in to the office. “Your… Your priority… is knowing I’m alright?”

“… Well right now, yes. This must be… difficult, for you,” the Brit scoured for the word, trying to sound tactful and realizing it probably wasn’t, “and I just wanted to make sure you’re doing… relatively okay.”

“Yeah, but you’re… you’re Rip Hunter… you’re the actual Rip Hunter,” George quickly said with, a half wild chuckle thrown in there after saying the name in an almost sacred whisper.

Rip winces at that. Rip Hunter, the man who George only knew as a mysterious, infamous movie character with a smooth tongue and a mind that worked beyond the smaller picture. Phil had the majority of his memories but ignored the broken, agonized part of him; the man who had been forged through suffering and a product of harsh training. The film student always glossed over the darker sides of him, the ones that would make him be just a regular human being. His family of course had been thrown in the script because he’d needed a driving force, but mistakes, grief, love, friendship, those had been thrown out.

“That’s what his Legends are for,” Phil had echoed once, “Rip’s just there to be a perfect leader; someone that keeps the team together and makes the plans, nothing less and nothing more.”

That’s all his former friend would see him as: perfect, powerful, and coldly logical, heroic but distant with tales greatly exaggerated in their victories. Something that he knows is a stigma on him, a stigma that he’d mostly gotten rid of for those he calls his friends, though he seemed to never be able to shake that respect and slight awe many of them ended up carrying for him (outside of his team and the JSA).

That man, Rip now realized, had been too similar to his Legion self, the only difference being that movie-him had fought for the side of good; the evil one had only ever been out for his goals, his cruel, cruel ambition, and icy, hateful rage.

Maybe now, with this person in front of him who had known him as someone different, he could convince him that neither of those people was truly him.

“Can I have a drink?”

The question cuts through his thoughts sharply, and Rip looks up again, his turn to blink in surprise. He realizes George was being completely serious, though there was a half-smile on his face.

“The script said you always had good alcohol with you in your office, and I just wondered if I could have some…” He trailed off slightly doubtfully at the end, once again mistaking the surprise on Rip’s face for something else.

Rip’s eyes widened. “Truly?” When the director nodded he tilted his head in interest. “You told me once that you had the ‘tolerance for it as good as a-’… Sorry the word has slipped my mind, what was it?” He allowed some of Phil’s teasing lilt to fill his voice, slightly surprised by how easily it comes to him.

George grimaced, a red flush coming across his face at the memory, saying the final word in a quiet shamefaced tone, a word that would make mothers everywhere wash their kid’s mouth with soap.

Rip let out a low chuckle at that, but moved around the desk to the little fridge, well aware that there was a second gaze following him. He rummaged around for a little bit until he found his goal; a half finished bottle of scotch, 3120, glimmering deep amber red that was common in most drinks from the future.

Pulling it and two glasses out, he walked back to his guest and poured them a generous amount. “Here you go,” he said, passing it onto the still waiting film student. “It’s the sweetest thing I have; it should go down easy-”

George didn’t even hesitate as he immediately tried to chug it all down in one go, probably hoping its effects would help him during this obviously difficult conversation. Of course, as Rip had said before while he might have a high tolerance for drugs, his alcohol limit was rather lacking, and he spluttered instantly, only managing to take a little bit in before pulling back with a twisted face; a mix of surprise and disgust.

“God I thought you said it was sweet!” He coughed gruffly while Rip chuckled again. “I-It tastes like… like lemon juice mixed with chocolate!” 

“Well chocolate is sweet, isn’t it?” Rip pointed out, rather unhelpfully judging by the look on the other’s face. He took his own sip that was more measured, far larger, and with far more ease, allowing a smirk on his face as George watched him with an almost jealous spark. “Besides, all drinks from the future generally have rather interesting tastes compared to what you would usually find in the past.”

Any sort of discomfort disappeared from George’s face to be replaced with that same almost stunned look, jaw dropping slightly again. Rip smiled (not without a little bit of a grimace) at that look. It was the reason he’d given him that particular drink, outside of its taste; something from the future to lead into the conversation of him being from the future. An easy, subtle starter that would get this next painful couple of minutes going. So when the man opened his mouth to say something, the former Time Master steeled himself and got ready to answer any question, or expected accusation, that was about to be flung his way.

“… So I guess mullets aren’t ‘generally’ popular in the future are they?”

Rip inhaled sharply. “Yes, you’re right George, I am from the-”

He stopped cold when the actual question processed, a small frown appearing on his lips. Slowly he met his guest’s eyes, this time it being his turn to blink rapidly. He stared in disbelief at George. 

“…Sorry,” The Captain said, putting the half-finished glass down on the table behind him. “… Can you repeat that?”

George furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, your hair,” He ran a hand through his own long black one. “I noticed you cut it and I just thought, you know, maybe it isn’t so popular where you come from?”

When Rip continued to stare in disbelief, the film student, for the third time, mistook his silence and swallowed, shuffling awkwardly in his seat. “Sorry if that sounded rude, man, I was just curious,” He muttered, almost defensively. 

Rip’s eyes widened as he realized how impolite he was acting. “No, no, no!” He quickly denied, shaking his head. An easy smile had crossed his face, and a small chuckle burst from his throat. “I-I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“Oh,” George sighed, shoulders slumping in relief. He took another sip of his drink, a smaller one, and this time he didn’t even make a face at the bizarre taste. For the first time some ease had begun to sneak in on his form, and the former Time Master was bolstered by it.

“To answer your question, I’m afraid that particular hairstyle died out around the mid 90’s, nearly two centuries before my time,” Rip said, matching his guest and taking another drink from his crystal glass. He suddenly wrinkled his nose and sniffed, rather pompously. “Don’t even understand why it gained any ground in the first place; it was absolutely horrendous. You Americans are such strange beings, and I travel with half a dozen of them on a daily basis…”

He trailed off when he noticed the weird look George was giving him. “What?”

George slowly shook his head, a rueful grin appearing on his lips. “It’s so weird to hear you talk like that; all sophisticated and British,” he chuckled, giving an awful attempt at mimicking the Captain’s accent. 

Rip raised an eyebrow, lip quirking upwards in a slightly bemused smirk. “Yes, well, technically Phil was the one who was talking weirdly; this is how I actually sound.”

He immediately regretted the line, casually thrown out without any of the weight that it should have held. The former Time Master nearly wanted to kick himself when he saw the grin that had been working its way onto George’s face drip off like sap, sorrow glinting in his eyes. He hung his head and Rip could see him swallow with difficulty again. 

“Right…” He murmured quietly, voice losing any of its previous lightness to be replaced by a dejected acceptance. “Because, Phil was the fake one,” he said the word almost like poison, and Rip painfully twitched at it. “… And you’re not really him.” 

Rip blinked slowly and then sighed heavily, wondering how he was supposed to explain this because by all means George was right. The film student had been an identity made up by fate and a Time Drive; flickering into existence without warning in an apartment that hadn’t been real till then. Philip Gasmer only took his first breath when Rip Hunter’s piece of the Spear of Destiny clattered to the floor beside the bed. History and Reality bent around him, the toxic mix of a burst of raw temporal energy and god like power from Longinus able to twist the timeline so it was like he’d always existed.

Yet still there were things simply not adding up: like how his DNA could not match anyone, how everything before that morning for Phil was foggy, memories unclear, how dreams had bombarded him every night of a different life, star filled and blood ridden. There was every clue and sign that he didn’t belong… but nonetheless existed. Perhaps fake, but that hadn’t made him not real.

Phil had not been Rip; he’d been his own person, though there were clear similarities. He’d been an ambitious, burnt out mess with a unique mind, taking drugs till he thought he could fly and yet spending hours hunched over a desk planning and building a world from his dreams. George might have been the voice of reason but Phil was the mad drive; some people called him insane and others a crazy genius.

Rip looked back at George, who was still hanging his head and refusing to meet his eyes. He wished his old friend would look at him, and then maybe he could see the sincerity in what he wanted to say.

“Phil… Phil might have been a made up identity, but he wasn’t just that.” He tried to get George to meet his eyes. “He was as alive as I am.”

“But you aren’t him anymore!” George suddenly burst out, the Captain before him let in a sharp breath at the loudness. There was true grief in his words, and they were shot out as if they’d been held back for a long time; Rip felt like they’d become white hot needles piercing through his heart, his grip on the table behind him automatically tightening.

“And… h-he’s gone now… he’s gone now, Captain Hunter.”

George dropped the glass he still had on the table beside him, head falling into his now empty hands as the tremors returned to his body in full force again. The Brit before him could only watch as he rode a wave of pain, one of losing someone that had been close to him.

Yes… yes, he wasn’t him. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t have a film student credit, he didn’t want to make movies, he didn’t want to get high and drunk and laugh until he couldn’t see straight and make all the friends he could in the classes he attended. Rip Hunter was a Time Master, with 15 years of experience and secrets on his shoulders. Phil Gasmer had been a film student, with normal dreams and a life, one combination out of infinite possibilities... and he was dead.

Rip understood George’s grief. The two of them had been sort of outsiders. Phil was outgoing and sociable, but too eccentric and short tempered to make any long lasting friends. George, while friendly, was shy and not one to drag attention to himself. While they had people they enjoyed spending time with, they had been each other’s first true friends in a while (well, that’s what Rip’s time-drive-created-memories said for him, at least). They’d grown close, trusted each other, made plans to build incredible movies and become the best partnering movie directors the world had ever seen. Cheesy, they knew, but it had carried them through grueling hours of school and social unpopularity.

George was grieving because Phil Gasmer was dead, his best friend was dead. He’d been killed as soon as Rip Hunter had blinked open cold green eyes, a cruel smirk beginning to crawl across his face… 

But… he hadn’t disappeared. Not really.

“Do you remember December, a week before Christmas?” Rip began, pushing off the desk so he was standing just closer to the younger man.

George tensed and Rip could see his eyebrows furrow slightly, confused as he processed what Rip was saying. “… Yeah, I do.”

Rip nodded. “And do you remember that I walked nearly a mile from my apartment to yours, just so I could come and complain about nightmares and headaches because I didn’t think anyone else would listen?”

The film student slowly pulled his head out of his hands, finally looking up to meet Rip’s soft gaze. Something bright all of a sudden gleamed in his eyes that had darkened with nearly a month’s worth of pain and sadness.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes again. “You were… scared, that you were going insane. The things you were dreaming, you said were so genuine and huge and terrifying that you would wake up and think it was real. You looked like you were going cry at any moment.”

“So you gave me an outlet, and it helped more than anything I’d tried before,” Rip added, already having moved to the bookcase beside George’s seat, looking for one particular book.

He heard a low scoff from his guest. “All I did was tell you to draw whatever was making you so worried and then maybe, if it was crazy enough, use it to make a movie or something-”

He was cut off as Rip found his goal, not hesitating a beat as he pulled the large, thick book out of its place and threw it on to his lap. George nearly jumped a foot in the air at the sudden move, eyes widening and letting out a squeak of surprise. He stared at the book first before turning his head back up to the smirking Time Master.

“What the hell man?!” he asked, almost sounding irritated by the scare. Rip gave a small chuckle.

“Open it.”

George blinked once, slowly looking back down at the object. Almost suspiciously, but with no lack of curiosity, he clicked open the belt around the cover and opened the pages. What he saw made his eyes widen once again and he inhaled sharply.

Inside the book were hundreds of drawings. Done in fine pencil and the style being an odd (though very appealing) mix of anime and realism. The drawings seemed to take up nearly every corner of every page. Some sheets were nothing more than figures and models while others were full blown painted artwork, detailed with shading and blending. They were all meticulously done, not a stroke going to waste and building up a piece of work in front of them, telling a muddled bunch of information like you would find in movie concept art.

The two men both knew what the drawings were about; who had done it and whose story it told.

George stopped at a sketch of the Spear of Destiny, fingers glossing over it in sudden recognition.

“H-how,” he stuttered, turning to look back up at Rip. “How did you get this?”

Rip raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t get it; I made it.” He reached down and tapped the detailed drawing, an odd feeling sparking up his arm at remembering what it had been like holding the actual artifact, the power deep within him, that had stayed all these years, stirring like a sleeping dragon.

George stared at him.

“But… but Phil once told me Rip, er, you couldn’t draw for anything,” he murmured in disbelief, flipping the page and looking at another sketch. This one was of a highly detailed, grotesque, and zombified demon like creature, blood and tissue still clinging on to it in a gruesome fashion and green flames bursting from its mouth and eyes. George immediately grimaced and turned the page to the next one, with a small chuckle from Rip.

The film student glanced back up at him. “What the hell was that even, man?”

Rip sighed heavily through his nose, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just the outcome of a wayward sorcerer playing with matters he shouldn’t have.”

The former Time Master tilted his head back with an almost painful smirk as the memory of that particularly nasty adventure came back to him. With closed eyes he didn’t notice George staring at him in utter bewilderment (and small disgust), before turning back to the book to study the new page.

On it there was a finely done sketch of a small, fit woman, with messily cut blonde hair that countered her brown skin sharply, alongside the white suit she wore and the golden mace she wielded. There was a fierce smile on her face, and she was crouching low as if about to leap at an opposing enemy.

George’s eyes widened with recognition, going so far as to let out a small gasp. “Sandra,” he breathed softly.

He looked back at Rip, who had a gentle smile on his face.

“Go on,” Rip said, nodding at the book.

George didn’t wait, and after a moment of staring at the picture he slipped to the next one. This drawing was also a person; a tall dark man, with fire in his palm and a flame thrower in the other hand, wearing several layers of thick coats and eyes burning white like the hottest part of the flame.

“Max!” George said, grinning hugely at the familiar sight of the metahuman. His eyes had lit up at that one, and Rip couldn’t help noticing that his hand just happened to cover the small written message of, ‘George Lucas’s favourite.’

The next drawing was of a dark haired beauty with porcelain skin, freckles, and muscles that could tear apart a truck. Bursting from her back were brown and black hawk wings, and in her hands was a silver Bo staff.

George’s smile only seemed to get bigger. “That’s Kara!” he said eagerly, looking up at Rip for confirmation which he gave through a tip of the head.

The movie director continued to flip through the pages with almost childlike glee, each one filled with drawings of people, places, or things. George spent not a second on each one, crying out their names and sometimes even their abilities, before moving on. Sometimes he would stop and ask Rip who the person was, and he would explain to the best of his abilities without confusing the man even more. That led them into several long, convoluted conversations about missions and past friendships. They spent nearly two hours on Rip trying to explain exactly how he might have fallen in love with a cowboy, but also most definitely did not at the same time.

“And these three?” George asked. The two of them were near the end of the book by now and he was pointing at three familiar people, two holding what looked like broken stick pieces while the third held the head of a beautiful spear. 

Rip felt his heart soften as he realized who they were. “Those were the other three guardians of the Spear, Mr. Lucas.”

“Oh!” George murmured, eyes widening and looking down at the picture with renewed interest. “Yeah, I remember; Phil didn’t talk about them a lot, which is good I guess, but he seemed to really like them.”

“Ah,” Rip sighed. “That I can understand.”

George glanced at him for a second, curious about the fondness on his face, before flipping back a few pages of the book to a sketch of the Waverider. There he stopped and went still, tracing the lines of the ship carefully, almost as if he was trying to memorize it. Rip went quiet as well, allowing him to take in exactly what the book meant.

Finally George opened his mouth. “He hasn’t disappeared, has he?” His voice was terribly delicate, holding on to the tiniest scraps of hopes that the book had given him like he might be set floundering without them.

“No, George,” Rip said, kneeling down in front of his old friend, understanding how important his next moves and words would be.

After hesitating for a moment he reached out and guided the pages of the book to one that he’d missed; an image of a man with the strangest fashion sense and a mop of brown hair bent over a drawing board, bathed in the lights of a rising sunset beside him. Phil Gasmer, late at work and stuck in his headspace, a familiar sight to both of them. Bending over him, reaching out to hold on to his hands to guide them across the paper, was Rip himself, ghost like and nothing but wisps of smoke beneath his waist. However, when Rip tilted the page to the light a certain way, the image changed. Now it was Rip, bent over his office desk and working, and Phil’s ‘ghost’ standing by him, hands waving around and clearly in the middle of some grand idea or speech.

George let in a slow shuddering breath, quickly understanding what the meaning of those two drawings were.

“He’s not gone,” Rip continued, trying to put as much conviction in his voice as he could. “Phil hasn’t just disappeared; nothing ever does without leaving an impact. He’s still with me, in my memories and mind and heart. I can’t forget him anymore than I can myself, because for quite some time that’s who I was, who I still am. I’m not him, I’ll admit, but we’re not as different as you might think. We’re both as courageous as we can be, we’re both fiercely loyal to our work and bloody brilliant at it if I do say so myself, and we’re both borderline mad.”

Rip took a deep breath in, steeling himself for something he had admitted perhaps three times in his life. “… And… most importantly… we care about our friends... Friends, like you. ”

George looked up at that quickly. His brown eyes were wet and his mouth was agape slightly, staring at Rip with a look he couldn’t decipher. A sound came from the back of his throat, maybe an attempt to talk, but it only died off into a soft, “Oh.” There were a couple seconds of quiet, in which Rip began to acutely wonder whether or not he had said the wrong thing. His mind went into overdrive trying to figure a way out of the hole he’d dug himself into when suddenly George dropped the book in his hands and threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around the former Time Master in what couldn’t be, but was most definitely, a crushing hug.

Rip let out a surprised grunt at the sudden tackle, hands coming up automatically to push him back until he realized exactly what was going on. His hands fell to the side, limp and utterly befuddled, feeling George squeeze even tighter.

“I missed you, man,” George murmured, hugging him even harder if at all possible.

The only response Rip could make was a tiny mumble in response, but slowly, ever so slowly, Rip’s arms came up and began to hug back.

\---

For the rest of their time together they talked about trivial matters; how the Legends were doing, the missions they had taken, whether or not film school was still as awful as Rip remembered it to be and if any of their other friends had remembered him. They hadn’t, sadly, but George said that now he had answers he could deal with it. It felt like the barriers had been torn down between them and the air cleared, and while George sometimes forgot that Rip was not completely Phil, they still had a good time.

They held friendly conversation for at least three more hours before Nate and Ray, having finally lost all patience, came barrelling into the room again, begging to have some time with who they claimed was their ‘hero’ and the reason they were who they were. George was mildly overwhelmed at first, but seemed ecstatic to be able to talk to such willing ears about his plans for his newest movie, Star Wars.

At some point the other Legends dared peek their heads into the room as well, equally curious about meeting the famous movie director before his time. Soon Rip was pouring out drinks for everyone and even George got over the taste to join in, unable to resist meeting the real life versions of the movie cast he’d worked so hard with Phil on.

At some point, several hours after their original conversation, Rip was standing at the edge of the console room, right in front of the plethora of seats, watching George eagerly jot down any suggestions each member of the team gave to him, even from Gideon herself. The music box was playing, Mick had brought food, and Ray was even calling for some sort of classic movie marathon.

Rip’s heart was warm watching the whole thing, and a rare smile had graced his features permanently.

“It looks like something from straight out of a movie,” he murmured to the ghost beside him.

The ghost turned his shaggy head of hair to him, green eyes gleaming slightly and American accent eternally familiar. “Well it is a movie, just a bit, uh, more y’know. And you know what?”

“What?” Rip asked.

“It’s not half bad.”

The ghost disappeared into the air, the faintest hints of weed and ink disappearing with him. Rip chuckled and took a sip of his drink.

“Not half bad at all, Mr. Gasmer.”


End file.
